


colour me

by vvolfie



Category: The Walking Dead (TV)
Genre: Angst, Carl's Eye Lives, Even Some Already Dead Characters Live Wow Amazing, Eventual Relationships, Fix-It, Grief/Mourning, Healing, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Multi, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Ron Anderson Lives, Self-Harm
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-01-03
Updated: 2018-07-23
Packaged: 2019-02-27 08:36:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 11,459
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13244532
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/vvolfie/pseuds/vvolfie
Summary: Ron survives; he's allowed to overcome his tremendous grief and trauma, he's allowed to learn how the apocalyptic world works, he's allowed to form connections with the people around him; Ron gets to heal.





	1. colour me red

**Author's Note:**

> Considering Ron's an abuse victim, I thought it would be neat to use the colours of a healing bruise in the titles as a metaphor, as a way of marking Ron's healing process.
> 
> This fic will ignore 95% of canon after the death of Jessie and Sam Anderson in s06e09.
> 
> Which is exactly where we pick up.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You've been bruised before. You should recognize the colour at least.

"You." The word sounds alien, like it doesn't belong to him. But Ron knows it comes out of his own throat. " _You._ "

"Ron." He barely hears his own name muffled by the rush of blood in his ears. "Don't do this. This doesn't solve anything."

"They're all dead because of him. This solves  _everything_." The ache in his chest is unbearable and he feels raw from the inside out and he wants nothing else more than turn the gun on himself and go after his mother and brother and  _Carl doesn't fucking **understand**_.

"Ron. Ron? Look at me."

Ron does; but the gun stays - pointed at Rick, threatening.

"I'm sorry. I'm so sorry. You're gonna be okay. I promise." Carl approaches him like you would a scared, wounded animal - slow and careful with both hands up, showing surrender. He reaches for the weapon, waiting for consent to take it. "Just please give me the gun."

Ron doesn't understand what difference would that make. The dead has surrounded them and they're going to die here and  _why hasn't he ** ~~pull~~** ed  ** ~~the trigger~~**  _by now.

It's a blur from there; they're running and somebody is yelling and somewhere along the way he let Carl have the gun because he's the one now who's pulling Ron by the hand and is shielding him with his body from harm.

They make it into Alexandria and manage to stumble into the infirmary. The people in the room are all talking frantic and at the  _samedamntime_  and Ron can't make a single sentence out of the mess.

He's sitting on the floor with his back aganst the wall where Carl has put him. He doesn't know how long he stays there. It could be minutes. It could be hours.

"The shock will wear off eventually and when it does-"

The panic sets in like clockwork, ( ~~"Ron? Ron! Breathe!"~~ ) and everything turns black.

 

i. _sight_  

They move him in with Denise and Tara, but he never really sees them. He leaves his room when they leave the house.

Sometimes, he drags himself into the infirmary and sits down against the wall to stare at the same spot he's done on the night he lost them. Rewinds time to where they were still w h o l e.

He doesn't leave the house for weeks. Becomes a ghostlike creature himself, haunting a home that's not even his.

And it turns out, there isn't much difference between being haunted and being the ghost.

 

ii. _hearing_  

Nightmares never come and go. The living doesn't get that privilege anymore.

So Ron wakes in his own sweat and his own tears and  **someone's fucking**   ~~phantom~~ **blood**.He can never decide who does that belong to.

_**option number 1:** mother's blood. r i p p e d apart. **option number 2:** brother's blood. r i p p e d apart. **option number 3:** father's blood. headshOt. (but it can't belong to him.) **option number 4:** own blood. heart ripped open heartamess._

He can hear them again; can hear their agony, can hear them crying. It echoes in his ears until it’s unbearable, until sobs are wrecking his body and even if Denise and Tara notice it, they never come into the room. By the end of it he feels like a crime scene, feels like he coughed up his heart and maybe a lung, too, but the pounding in his head is so strong now it's slowly drowning out the sounds.

He _bathes_ in the relief. _This_ is how you play deaf.

 

iii.  _touch_

They either avoid him or come too close. The latter he has a problem with.  _Get away. Do not pry._

They always approach  **too fast**  or  **too loud**  or  **too proud**  and he never means his words to bite but somebody has to end up bleeding.

 

iv. _taste_

Even eating triggers the flood of flashbacks, so he avoids it all together.

Denise and Tara leave food out for him, prepared meals for him to eat. On the days his stomach growls loud and he cannot stand the hunger and thirst anymore he wolfs down anything and everything in sight without chewing and almost choking on it and he doesn't think about the taste.

He can't keep most of the food down, anyway.

 

v. _smell_

There are days when you just have to focus on breathing. There is something sitting on his chest - maybe it's a someone. The air is stuffy and his lungs are full of dirt and to be honest he doesn't really remember what the fuck is oxygen anyway.

He's been standing here for a long time now, - in front of the walls, with unfocused eyes, dissociated - wondering if he'd feel less claustrophobic outside. So he climbs and climbs and climbs, lets his mind wonder and his legs wander,  _outOUTout_  of Alexandria. He let's them take him wherever they want to.

The place he arrives at some time later is painfully familiar. It's quiet now; the herd is nowhere to be found. Dead bodies are scattered all over the asphalt. His eyes linger on each, searching for confirmation he doesn't need nor wants to get.

But he can't find them.  _Thank God he can't find them._

A growl disrupts the silence, something from a few feet away. He reaches for his knife as he moves closer to the source.

He takes in the disgusting view, the creature that was once human. It's missing every limb and its skin is barely attached and it's chatting ugly teeth at Ron.  _Death cannibal hungry even in sleep._

He straddles the body and clutches the knife so hard his fingers go pale with it.

His stomach lurches.  _Keep breathing. In. Out InOut._

He lifts his arm and the first strike cuts into the flesh of its chest, reaching something what could have been a heart once.

It remains undead.

He strikes again - and again andagain.  _ ~~Wash~~_ _, ~~rinse~~ , repeatrepeatrepeat._

"Try the head."

Ron freezes. He straightens his back, lets his hand hang against his body, leaves the knife visible - a warning. He turns his head; eyes meet eyes.

 _Grimes._  He turns his attention back to the reanimated corpse, spine cracking all the way through.

He stabs into the brain, weapon easily sliding into the organ through the eye socket. He stays like that; with a slouched figure and knife burrowed deeply into gore and tears on the verge of falling. He realizes the smell stays as well.

It stays and it stains and

you can't soak your heart in cold water.

(but oh how he wishes he could.)  

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You can read the poem version [here](http://v-vvolfie.tumblr.com/post/152530886246/i-sight-bruise-so-deep-you-can-barely-see-it).


	2. colour me plum

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You've been inhaling the lilac sky. Bruise runs deep like still waters do. Remember; you know this place. Remember; you've been here before.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This took me 84 years to finish my G O D. Enjoy!
> 
> EDIT: I've edited a few things in the chapter. I've also added/deleted sentences because I was deeply unsatisfied with it when I posted it. Blame my perfectionistic ass.

They never tell you how painful it is - the mourning after - and how deep it actually goes. 

They never warn you about how your spine suddenly becomes weak, no longer capable of holding your weight for a longer period of time. They never teach you how you move with holes in your heart, each representing a loved one. A heavy chest becomes your constant and your ribs can barely hold it together, creaking under the weight. You're tired and numb for days on end. 

So he spends time stuck in a loop, goes to the same spot every morning and sits under the tree near by the water where nobody really bothers to look, but ...

... there's a sensation that comes with being watched, a feeling that's all over and he never catches  ** ~~the person~~**  but he suspects who it is. Ron doesn't make it difficult for  ~~ **them**~~ ; the exhaustion is so severe these days he barely manages to drag himself from one place to another, let alone call  ** ~~someone~~**  out he can't even see.

Even now, he can feel eyes glued to him.

He knows it's for safety reasons, either his or theirs, but to make sure history doesn't repeat itself. Ron feels like  ** ~~he's~~**  searching for something; maybe the answers written or the timer on his body like he's some walking ticking bomb just seconds away from exploding but either way, Ron couldn't care less until  **Carl** stays where he is and  **doesn't**. **come**. **closer**.

... but he will. They all do eventually.

Ron gets confirmation a few days later. With Carl's each step it grows stronger, that 'fight-or-flight' feeling where every muscle in his body tenses, fists curl into themselves. He tries to will himself to move, to either run or pounce, but nowadays his body and brain don't cooperate well. The only thing Ron has energy for is following Carl with his eyes.

Ron wants to tell Carl to go, to not even get into whatever bullshit he's come up with.

He doesn't.

Instead, he continues to sit there, head thumped against the tree, with his neck bared and chest feeling open, ribcage on display and organs visible.  _Oh, what a sight he must be._

He's waiting for Carl to say something, to give him a reason to insult and threaten _. Try me. ~~Let me stitch up a lung at least.~~_

But Carl doesn't say a word. He sits down and tosses an apple into Ron's lap.

Ron doesn't touch it. 

 

 

"Brought you food." It becomes daily, it becomes routine what they have and Ron doesn't really know what to make of it. There's something unnerving about it, something that makes him feel like _he's an abused dog being coaxed into trusting humans again_ , and while he hates the comparison his brain comes up with, he hates it more that it starts working, he starts eating at some point.

The realization of it brings a new ache because  _when has he become an animal that needs to be beckoned with, needs_ _ **that** type of invitation..._

Weeks go by and Ron's getting used to the other boy's presence. He doesn't like it; vulnerability is something he can't afford at the moment.

Ron's tempted to ask questions, tempted to just speak at all, but he doesn't really know what to say. He opens his mouth, tries to make himself say something  **bitter**  and  **biting** , thinks by pushing away  _him_  he can push away  _the feeling_ , but the breathlessness of loss is a heavy burden and something that's still sitting on his lungs.

He gives it a try, anyway.

"You keep coming back."and Ron wants to laugh because it's a useless statement, a sentence going nowhere, and it comes out somewhere between hoarse and barely there, destroying both the attempt and the purpose.

Carl looks up, his surprised expression is genuine and curious."I'm annoying like that." 

 _This_  is his answer, his  _big comeback_ , and now there's a smirk threatening to escape, tugging at the corner of his mouth and ...

... it does  _something_  to Ron's aching parts.

He can't decide if that's a good or a bad thing.

 

 

Imagine a terrible itch under your skin, an itch you're unable to scratch. That doesn't mean you can't try. It's becoming a coping mechanism, something he searches and finds comfort in. A different pain, that's all he wants; something he can welcome without guilt, so he can stop missing them for a  ~~minute~~  for a  _ ~~second~~_  for a  _moment._ He scratches his arm until his skin is  _red_  and  _raw_  and  _his nails are ready to draw blood_...

"Ron, you're doing it again." ... or until somebody tells him 'stop' and he  _obeys_  like the  _good dog_  he is.

Carl stands up from his usual spot and walks over to Ron to patch the injured arm up.

 _Because a_ _pparently_   _Carl comes with a fucking first aid kit nowadays..._ still,Ron doesn't protest.

Carl's fingers are lightly grazing Ron's skin as he starts disinfecting the scratches. The touch is feather light and feels foreign, but Ron is touch starved to the point he doesn't even notice himself leaning into the skin contact. Ron watches Carl's face as he's concentrating, as he's working on the bandage.

Between the two of them Carl's the one who starts the conversation. "You'll have to talk about it eventually, you know. Trust me, keeping it all inside doesn't do you any good."

"You a shrink, Grimes? Because I've got Denise for that," answers Ron with a jab. It's nowhere near playful, but it doesn't have the venom anymore it would have had a few weeks prior.

Either way, Carl doesn't take it to heart. He continues. "Look, I've already lived through some bad shit and I've done stuff I'm not proud of. I did what I had to d-"

"Don't you fucking dare. We're not doing this," interrupts Ron. He already knows this is gonna end up in comparing baggage. Trust him... neither of them wants that.

But Carl has never given up that easy, has he? He finishes wrapping Ron's arm, then lifts his head. He looks the other boy in the eye. "You need to start talking," he says it again this time with more force, pushing on the subject.

Ron doesn't mean his next words to bite - he doesn't think.  _Hedoesn'tknow_. He's itching again. "What exactly do you want me to talk about Carl, huh? The abuse? The fact that your father murdered mine without a second thought? Or that he chopped my mother's arm off moments before she and my brother were ripped apart and eaten alive in front of me? WHICH TRAUMA DO I TALK ABOUT FIRST?"

He pauses, waits for a response. He can see on Carl's face he's lost for words. "Let's not compare scars, Carl. You don't want to play that game with me."

For the first time through their encounters, Ron's the one to leave first.

 

 

Ron's night terrors are getting so bad it's taking a toll on him. He knows he's getting delusional again, from either desperation or the lack of sleep but he's past the point of knowing or caring what to do about it.

Their deathplace haunts him, it owns every nightmare he has. So one day he decides to haunt it back. So he heads to the walls. So he starts to climb.

"Get down, Ron."

This time, Ron doesn't bother with looking behind him.

When Carl gets no response, he tries a different tactic. "I'm sorry for what you had to go through. I'm sorry for your mom and your brother. As for your dad," - Ron stops in his tracks, - "he was an abusive asshole. You're better off."

Ron reacts exactly the way Carl wants him to; he jumps down. He moves with rage, leans into Carl's personal space. "I get it. Alexandria gets it. Even the  _walkers_  get it." He pushes on the word, mocking theirexpression for the dead. "But I swear to God if you call my dad an asshole one more time I'm gonna punch you in the face. Then Rick will finally have a reason to kill me, too." Ron leaves it there. He goes back to the wall and starts working his way up again.

Carl decides to try one more time, but he admits he's running out of patience. "You  **are**  gonna get yourself killed if you keep this up."

The answer comes right away in a form Carl nowhere near finds satisfying. "Finally some good fucking news, right?" snorts Ron.

Carl decides he's had enough. He gets a hold of Ron's wrist before he gets higher, not hurting but with enough force to pull the other boy back down. He pushes Ron against the nearest tree. "I DON'T WANT YOU DEAD!" shouts Carl. It echoes in the warm afternoon, between houses and their ribcages.

"Listen to me, Ron," he continues. "I know you're angry and hurting and there's a part of you that still wants to get revenge and see my dad gone but you have to understand one thing. We're  **not**  enemy. We want to help you but we can't do that until you don't let us." Carl's face remains hard, but his eyes soften as he looks at the person in front of him.

"You have to let yourself heal, man. This anger in you," - Carl puts a palm up to Ron's chest, pushes slightly against it, - "it's gonna swallow you whole." His hand is the only thing that's still holding Ron up. 

Carl steps away and his hand comes with him, causing Ron to slump against the tree, but he still keeps the eye contact for a long moment, letting his words to sink in. He leaves Ron to his thoughts then, turns around and walks away.

Ron weighs the options he doesn't have. He swallows the pride he no longer has. It's been a long time coming. He has to say it out loud before he changes his mind. "I'm tired, Carl. I'm so fucking tired." He thinks it's audible enough to hear but barely; his voice dies down between sentences, adopts the crack his heart has in the middle.

Carl steps come to a stop. He hesitates, but turns around once again ...

... and Carl's looking at Ron now with his  _big blue eyes_  and the only thing Ron can offer back is his  _big_ _blue heart_ , ready to latch onto anything that cares enough to pay attention.

It's too much again. Ron quickly shuts his eyes so Carl can't see them welling up with tears.

He hears the grass rustling. He hears Carl's answer. "Yeah, I know."

Ron opens his eyes and sees the other boy standing in front of him with his arm outstretched, offering a hand to take.

It's both an unspoken apology and a sign of forgiveness for things said and unsaid.

Ron reaches out. (He tells himself this is  ~~not~~  admitting defeat. He tells himself this is not admitting defeat. He tells himself this is  **not**  admitting defeat.) He grabs the other boy's hand and let's Carl pull him along.

So the itch remains. So his fingers twitch and stretch. So he fights the urge to scratch for once.


	3. colour me green

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **Here's what you know about healing:**  
>  1\. Bruises bloom backwards.  
> 2\. Healing takes time.  
> 3\. It's a brand new beginning.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am very proud of this one! Enjoy!

The thing about death is, it doesn't let you say goodbye. You have to figure the  _when_  and the  _how_  out on your own.

He doesn't know how long he's been sitting in front of their gravestones. He's reading the names over and over again.  _Jessie Anderson. Sam Anderson._

He hasn't said a word yet. He knows he's pulling out the heartache, ever so slowly tugging on that  _fucking bandage_ ; it's  _bloodied_  and  _ruined_  and  _stuck inside_  and if he wants to be honest it's  _way too small_  for a wound like this, but he's always been good at pretending.

"Sorry." It's a single word but he stumbles on each and every letter. He feels its weight, feels how many things he has to apologize for.

_Sorry for the last fight we had, you were right; Sorry I didn't visit, I was avoiding myself; Sorry I'm not the one lying dead, I wish it was me._

Feels how  _it doesn't make a fucking difference at all_...

"I miss you." He talks to their ghosts; their bodies long gone before it had the chance of rotting.

"I blamed you for a lot of things, mom. I know dad wasn't good for you. He wasn't good for any of us. But it's not that easy, right?" He pauses, as if he's expecting an answer. "It's never that easy."

"Sam recognized the problem way before than I did. I always told you he’s the smart one. Right, Sammy?" He chokes on the sound - something similar to a laugh, except this one  _hurts_  and feels like he's  _gargling on his own blood_  - that comes deep from his chest as he addresses his little brother.

"I don't really know where to go from here. Or why should I even bother."

"Carl has been trying... to help, I guess. I almost killed his father and he still comes back every time. I tried to kill  _him_ , for fuck's sake. I hate him for making me feel the guilt, but I hate him for his stupid heart and patience more."  _Mom, I don’t think I hate him at all…_

"I don't know why he's doing it. What he sees in me I don't see in myself. But I'm gonna try. I know that's what you'd want."

"I miss you so much." He barely gets through the sentence before his chest overflows and loses its content for them to see.

Once he's done sobbing and spilling over, he picks himself up from the ground.

"I love you. We'll see each other again someday." He runs his fingers over both of their engraved names, then leaves the cemetery.

He never sees the sheriff hat lying under the willow’s crown.

 

 

Somewhere along the line Ron gathers enough strength to show up to Rosita's class.

But once he's there, he's having second thoughts. As Rosita explains how to use the machete he takes a quick look over the dozen people participating to learn.

Most of them are Alexandrians, - which makes sense - but there are two men who he recognizes as Father Gabriel and Eugene. They probably joined later to their group, Ron guesses.

He turns his attention back to Rosita, now demonstrating a series of movements, a choreography that others seem to have adopted as instinct by now. He copies them, getting used to the feeling.

"You should be resting." Ron stops in the middle of a movement. He turns his head to identify the owner of the voice.

The person who's interrupted him repeats the sentence. "You should be resting."

Before he could say anything back, Rosita steps to them. "What's going on, Eugene?"

"Considering the amount of trauma this individual has gone through he should minimize the stress factors he could come in contact with and this environment isn't appropriate currently for his mental state so forgive me if I show a little concern for a group member's well being," says Eugene in one breath, - truly impressive if Ron wants to be honest - although Rosita seems unphased.

"Don't worry about Ron. What you  _should_  be worrying about instead is holding onto that machete tighter, so it has more chance of ending up in a walker's skull rather than your foot." She knocks her machete against his. Eugene jumps a little and almost drops the weapon, proving Rosita's point. "Not a word until the lesson is over. This is Ron's first one, I don't need you to be distraction."

Rosita walks over to Ron while keeping her eyes on Eugene. She grabs the weapon and rearranges his hold on the machete. "Here. Faster movements, okay? Otherwise you  _will_ get stuck."

Ron nods.

Rosita backs up and folds her arms across her chest. "Well, what are you two waiting for?"

After quite a few strikes, - once Rosita's satisfied - she leaves them to practice some more and walks to Olivia to correct her posture.

Eugene doesn't speak to him again and Ron doesn't bother to, although he can't shake the feeling of being watched. He looks to his left and sure enough, the man is still staring at him like he hasn't got anything better to do.

Ron sighs.  _This is gonna be a long practice._

 

 

Ron doesn’t know how to drive yet, but he understands the importance of learning it.

It's a skill you must acquaire in order to move around especially in this world, but it's also something Ron has to swallow the bile around before he gets into.

He doesn't have a problem with getting Daryl as his instructor. He's grumpy and doesn't talk much, but he gets his point across. It's not like Ron's very talkative nowadays, either.

With the help of the man, Ron seems to get the hang of it quickly.

As they head home one day with Daryl behind the wheel, the older of the two comments on it as well. "You drove before?"

Ron hesitates to answer. "Uh... dad used to try to teach me. He had" - he pauses, swallows around the lump in his throat, - "different methods, so I had to learn quick." He keeps it vague. Daryl can fill the blanks in if he wants to.

Daryl clenches his jaw. "I get it, kid. You have no idea how much," he mutters.

Ron glances at Daryl's back, at the old scars Ron has noticed during their time spent together, vest doing a poor job hiding the man's past.

"It ain't your fault. What your old man did to you. Ain't your mama or brother's neither. Got it?" Daryl's attention is on the road but he's watching Ron from the corner of his eye, making sure he  _understands_.

And Ron _does_.

They spend the rest of the road in silence, neither of them feeling need to talk. The movements of the car are lulling Ron.

The last thing he hears before he drows off is Daryl's quiet, gruff voice. "You're gonna be okay, kid. We got you."

Ron doesn’t know how to drive yet, but he’s getting there.

 

 

Denise has never considered herself an early bird. Even before the end of the world.  _Even before the beginning of the end._

It's ironic, really. For a mentally ill person to study and pursue a career in something they have trouble dealing with in the first place. With anxiety always creeping in the back of her mind - present as ever, never cured.

It's overwhelming. It's exhausting.

But times change. Now she rarely gets to sleep in. She's got people who count on her - a terrifying thought. She tries not to think about it too much )panic that starts to bubble in her chest to crawl its way through her and infect her entire body to  _swallow.her.whole_ ( No, she doesn't think about it at all.

This morning is not any different. Denise wakes up early, taking only a minute to deal with getting up and starts her morning routine, makes a pot of coffee, then sits down to write a medical list for Rosita and Daryl.

Once she's done she checks the list one more time to make sure she hasn't forgotten anything, then gets up and walks out the front door.

As she's waiting for Daryl to arrive, her mind wanders. She's been feeling cooped up in Alexandria. She tires herself out mentally, but physically not at all, and that's a problem. Without that balance sleep doesn't come as easy to her as she'd like. Plus being unable to protect yourself and not knowing even the basics of survival is frustrating in itself.

She sees Daryl rounding the corner.

Once he's there and they exchanged a couple of 'good mornings' in their own ways she hands the paper to the man and watches him read through her handwriting.

"Hm.. pop for Tara again?" asks Daryl.

"Y-you know it." She's nervous. It's palpable, telltale signs of anxiety seeping through her voice and body language.

After a few seconds of silence, Denise convinces herself to ask the question that's been eating at away her for a while now. "I've been thinking and we should-"

"No." The spoken word is clear and straightforward and leaves no room for argument. Daryl doesn't even bother with looking up.

She scrunches her forehead, taken aback and a little hurt by the outright refusal. "You don't even know what I wanted to say."

"Nah, I know." He folds the piece of paper and slides it into his backpocket and finally turns his full attention on the woman in front of him. "You want to come."

Her confidence wavers. "M-maybe?"

"Nah, you played this once. Almost got hit by a stray arrow." Daryl doesn't like the idea. Not much at all.

"That wasn't my fault." Her stubborness finally makes its debut, too.

"The bastard got lucky he ran away before we could find him," Daryl grumbles under his nose.

"I know the last time didn't turn out the way it should have and I know I'm the only doctor here but-"

"It ain't just that. You want to get out there, you get proper training first. You can start with showing up to Rosita's class."

Denise is taken aback, but pleasantly surprised. "Really?"

Daryl murmurs something she can't quite hear while walking away so she takes it as a 'yes'.

She's about to turn around when Daryl.. stops. His back is turned to her, so she can't see his face fully, but he's torn expression is telling and he's looking at something his left hand is holding that Denise hasn't even noticed until now.

He walks back to her.

"Uh.. here." His movements are unsure, clearly uncomfortable and slightly bashful.

Daryl hands the book to her. She looks at the object's front. The title reads "Treating Survivors of Childhood Abuse". Her heart drops. She can't say she's been expecting this, but she feels like she should be more surprised.

"For the.. kid. Ron." She looks up upon hearing him speak. Daryl continues, "Found it. Not long before we got here. Thought it might help."

Daryl doesn't add the reason why he kept the book in the first place and Denise doesn't ask. Even if performing surgery or treating a wound is somewhat new territory for her, recognizing signs of an abuse victim certainly isn't.

"He's a good kid." Daryl fights the emotions bleeding through his gruff voice, the vulnerability is visible in his eyes. He has a hard time keeping eye contact, but he manages.

Denise understands _._

The nods they exchange are short and serious, carry a heaviness in them they might never speak of again. Daryl leaves without another word and Denise stays on the porch until he's out of sight, her eyes fixated on the scars peeking out from under his vest.

She steps inside her house with a bowed head and a heavier heart she's walked out with. Sadness now is accompanied by a pang of guilt she's learnt to suppress.

She leans against the door and strokes her hand over the cover of the book.

Alexandria knew about the domestic abuse. They all caught moments; Pete grabbing Jessie's arm too tight, a bruise already forming under her skin. Sam always walking next to either his brother or mother,  _farfarfar_ away from his father, never next to Pete. Ron burning a hole into his dad's skull with his eyes after a rough night.  _If looks could kill..._

But they didn't do anything. Because they needed Pete. But they didn't need  _Pete_. The community needed a  _doctor_. She was already here. And that could have been arranged  _if they just all have been fucking brave enough to do somethi-_

Suddenly, she hears a clink of a spoon, which can mean either Tara or Ron has woken up since she went outside. She slowly tiptoes through the infirmary, trying to approach the kitchen and the person currently occupying it without making any noise.

She peeks around the doorway and sees Ron sitting on a stool, a green porcelain bowl in front of him. It catches her of guard, but Denise smiles. He's eating the oatmeal she prepared for him yesterday evening and reading the Daredevil comic Tara got for him the last time she went scavenging.

She's been keeping mental notes on the boy's recovery. He's slowly getting better. He consumes a healthier amount of food. His movements and chewing are much slower than before which could mean he still doesn't really have an appetite but at least he doesn't wait until the hunger and thirst takes over. The dark circles under his eyes are still prominent, but the night terrors are less frequent. He still drains quickly, but he's no longer trying to avoid sleep. He's always tired. Even now his figure is slouched, his back bending in a way Denise is sure his spine doesn't appreciate. He rarely finds the energy to do simple stuff like washing his hair or the dishes but.. he's trying now. He really is.

She watches him for a few more moments, considers joining him, but decides against it. Instead she pushes the book against her chest, as if hugging the object would make a difference and console or heal the boy in front of her.

It does neither.

But that's okay. He's getting better. And Alexandria will make sure it stays that way.

 

 

Bullets count as luxury nowadays and wasting them on shooting practice gets you in trouble. They should know better... so of course they're doing it. Luckily for the community, Eugene has been slowly figuring out how to make homemade bullets, so they're getting braver and what Rick doesn’t know about...

"There."

Ron aims the gun at one of the walkers Tara's pointing at. They're far away, but not far enough for missing them. The shots he takes all reach their destinations, - bullets lodged deeply into rotting skulls - but all missing their first chance… or second.

He lowers the gun down, clenching his jaw in frustration.

"Dude, you're killing it," says Tara proudly.

"I haven't gotten any of them on the first try." Ron's disappointed.

"So? You got them. That's the important part. Pound it." He looks at her hand, a soft, breathy laugh slipping through his lips. He mirrors the gesture and bumps their knuckles.

He turns his attention back to the task at hand, reloading the gun and getting back into position while Tara falls silent after that... too silent for Ron's opinion. Whatever it is, it's a sensitive subject for either him or her, but he waits all the same.

"Sooo," drawls Tara the word. "The adults have been taking the teenagers on the shorter runs lately." Ron has been expecting someone to bring it up eventually. "Interested?"

"In possibly dying? Always," jokes Ron. Personally, he thinks his sense of humor has improved in the last couple of months. Looking at Tara's face.. it hasn't.  _Oh well._

"You would go with Glenn and Michonne," continues Tara.

He swallows. He has yet to interact with Michonne ever since the incident, but he thinks about it.

A walker emerges from behind the trees. Ron inhales deep, aims the gun at the target. It's not like he has anything to lose.  _One way or another._

He exhales. "Okay."

The bullet goes straight into the walker's head.

 

 

It’s been raining all day. Ron likes rain; likes watching it, likes listening to it, likes the scent of it. 

They use these days up; to rest, to heal, to regenerate. On days like this God comes down with a peace offering in hand and a mouthful of beautiful lies but God is taking a vacation or playing dead somewhere and anyway, you know better than that.

It’s been raining all day and the house is quiet. Ron steps outside his room and heads down to the kitchen. He keeps his pace slow, the carpet swallowing the sound his foot makes when it lands on each stair.

When he reaches the bottom he sees Denise sitting on a stool, enjoying a glass of that powdered lemonade stuff Tara brings home for her every once in a while. She's reading a book, holding it by its spine. She's scrunching her eyebrows in concentration, focusing on absorbing as much information as she can.

The fact that Denise still hasn't noticed him coming down makes Ron smile. She always does this when she's reading - ignoring the world. He cranes his neck a little to read the letters on the cover.  _"Treating Survivors of Childhood Abuse"._ The smile drops from his face. He can't say it takes him by surprise. He's seen the book around, - Denise tends to forget putting stuff away - and it doesn't take a rocket scientist to put the puzzle pieces together.

"Got bored with _War and Peace_?"

She startles. "Ron." She tries to hide the book, to put it in her lap behind the stool.

Ron watches as she fumbles. "Don't bother. I know about it."

Denise stops her movements. "Oh."

Ron shrugs, sits down opposite of her. "It's okay. I know I'm not fine. You know it, too. Otherwise you wouldn't be reading that book."

"How do you know? I like to read," jokes Denise and Ron smiles, mood lightening up for a second, but soon falling back into the seriousness of the subject.

"Does it help?" Although he doesn't ellaborate and doesn't look at her, he thinks that's enough. It has to be;  _for now._

"My job is essentially talking. Whenever you want to, need to or feel to," answers Denise.

She's waiting for a response and Ron doesn't really know how to, so he just does exactly that. Starts talking about it.

"My dad wasn't always abusive. Sam would say it different but he is-" he trips over the word, present tense still coming still way too often out of his mouth when he talks about his family -  " _was_  five years younger than me so he wouldn't really be able to remember..." he trails off. His heart is aching again, hurting his ribcage so bad it seems to affect his tongue as well.

Ron looks Denise in the eye and the words start flowing like running water from a sink, but it feels like his soul gets lighter with every word that leaves his mouth. "I hated him. I hate that I loved him. I wanted to love him the way I loved my mom, you know? Because that's how you're supposed to feel about  _both_  of your parents, right? But I just feel guilty about loving him at all."

Ron pauses. "There's a shitload of guilt attached." His laugh is a strange, scratchy thing. 

Before Denise has the chance to respond they hear a door closing upstairs, which can only mean one thing. They hold the eye contact, Denise giving him a moment to decide, but they already hear Tara coming down the stairs.

"I don't want you to look at me as your patient, Denise."

"I'm not. I won't."  _A promise -_ something Ron desperately clings to. He nods, let's out a deep breath he feels like he's been holding for a while.

Tara reaches the bottom of the stairs. "Good morning." She greets them with a smile. She looks well rested, her face showing satisfaction.

"More like good afternoon," teases Denise, smiling at her girlfriend. Tara and Heath got back in the middle of the night from their run just right before it's started raining, so she slept through most of the day. Not that it matters, because the majority of the community is in their houses, except a handful of people who are guarding Alexandria, securely under the protection of the towers.

When Tara reaches him she pecks the side of his head, - something she's made a habit out of but Ron doesn't mind - then she continues her way to her girlfriend. After kissing Denise, she heads to the stove so she can put the kettle on to make some green tea, hoping to put some form of caffeine into her body in this late afternoon. Denise hates it when she drinks coffee after noon.

He watches them. Soft-spoken words are exchanged between the two women - a dynamic that's still somewhat foreign to Ron in a household. Their gentle voices merge with the rain's pitter-pattering against the windows, behaving like a balm of sorts, soothing the restless mind.

 

 

Ron dreads the day his first run comes. He's jittery and tired and stuck in a car with two people he doesn't really know.

Scratch that - he doesn't know  _Glenn_  at all, but he sure as hell have met Michonne before who looks like she'd rather be anywhere else than being in the same breathing space as him. He understands the obvious reason, but can't really bring himself to care.

These kind of runs can range from a few hours to a few days. Depends on how far they go out. The first few lessons are basic knowledge, but they get more challenging with time. Soon enough, checking pockets on corpses turns into killing corpses.

"These are yours, Ron," instructs Glenn.

He wishes he could tell he's getting used to it; the rotting flesh, the smell, the sound the blade causes when it sinks into the brain. The adrenaline creates a hyperawareness he'd rather not have.

But he does get better at ignoring it. He takes two walkers down without the help from the adults he usually needs, but the last one is bigger and wider and doesn't go down easy. It's distracting enough for a child walker to go unnoticed behind the large body. Once the last corpse meets its second death, the smaller body comes into view.

His whole body frozes, his fingers let go of the knife and it's harder to breathe again and not again  _oh God notagain_.

He tries closing his eyes, tries to shake the image out of his head, but the longer he keeps them shut the more the walker looks like his little brother.

"Ron? Ron! Breathe!"  _What does Glenn mean? He's breathing ~~he'strying~~._

Ron sees Michonne take care of the walker;  _watches_  her machete slide through its  _chest_ rather than its _head_.  ~~He's losing consciousness~~.  _He swears it's his ~~chest~~ , too._

Ron wakes by the time dusk has already caught up with them. He's layed down on the passenger seat, body turned inwards and covered with blankets. He can slightly feel the heat of a campfire on his back.

He can't tell where Glenn and Michonne are, but he can feel two pairs of eyes on the back of his head; can feel their presence.

"Maybe it was too early to bring Ron out here," Glenn's voice is soft, but clear in the quiet night.

"Denise' said he's well enough to handle it. So has Tara. He has to get used to it eventually," Michonne answers. "Even Mikey hasn’t had a panic attack upon seeing a walker."

"The  _child_ walker triggered it. You know that." Glenn has always striked Ron as a kind hearted person, but it definitely takes him by surprise that he's defending someone whom he barely knows.

When Michonne doesn't react, Glenn continues. "Look, I know you and Rick-"

"Don't. You weren't there," interrupts Michonne, practically seething the words through her teeth. "He aimed the gun at Rick. Carl could barely talk some sense into him." Ron doesn't blame her. It's been obvious through these trips that Michonne holds some level of grudge against him.

"You're right. But you can't hold this against him for too long now."

"And why the hell not?" There's a certain type of defiance behind the question; something that has to do everything with Rick and nothing with Ron.

"Because it withholds his recovery and he is one of us now, whether you like it or not. He made a mistake but Rick's fine."

"He pointed a loaded gun at Rick and was seconds from killing him. You call that a  _mistake_?"

"Yes, I do. Because Rick is fine. The kid isn’t."

 The sharp whispers behave like glass, cutting Ron's heart all the further.

"That's not our fault."

"Some of it is.  _Most_  of it is." The words are only followed by the rippling of the fire and the quiet of the night. "Forgive him. Try at least. It's the least we can do."

Ron's head  _hurts_  and his chest is  _hollowed_  again and he  _doesn't want to think about any of it_.

He let's exhaustion take him.

 

 

As time goes by, it gets easier;  _getting a hang of anything of surviving of **living**._

It's a warm day. He's just got back from training, still winding down and breathing heavy and drenched in sweat. He sits on the porch with eyes closed for a while, letting the sun caress his face and warm his soul. It feels like he hasn't gotten to enjoy the sun in ages.

He can hear footsteps coming towards him but he doesn't look; not just yet. When they arrive they decide to stand in front of him, blocking the sunlight and warmth.

"Can we sit?" asks someone.

He opens his eyes, squinting slightly to make out the person.

Enid is there with Judith in her arms.

Ron nods.

"Sasha?" points Enid out, noticing his appearance.

"And Abraham," confirms Ron.

"Uh." Enid makes a noise, sharing the experience with Ron about how ruthless those two can get as trainers.

Enid sits down parallel to Ron, slightly balancing Judith on her hip.

"How are you holding up?" inquires Enid.

"I've been better but.." he leaves the sentence hanging, for Enid to fill the space.

"You honor the dead by going on. You live because they don't get to." It seems out of place, something that wouldn't come from Enid. "Glenn told me that. So I think you're holding up perfectly."

Ron’s mouth curves into a smile. He appreciates the words, but it’s the last sentence that warms his heart. "He's a good dude," he says.

"Almost dropped a water bottle on his head once," remembers Enid.

They both slightly laugh at that- a lighhearted moment finding its way into the heavy subject.

"Glad you missed."

A hint of a smile remains on their faces, but the sentence itself is followed by a comfortable silence.

Soon, Judith becomes fussy and wiggles in Enid's arms, stretching her arms towards Ron, asking him to take her.

"Do you want to hold her?" asks Enid.

He hesitates a bit, but caves in a few seconds later.

Judith settles then; content that she's gotten her wish.

He strokes his hand through her soft baby hair, smiling gently at the little girl. "She reminds me of Sam. When he was little," remembers Ron.

Judy looks at him then, her little hands reaching and touching his face. She's smiling, showing off her adorable dimples.

"She likes you," says Enid.

 

 

Denise has been training like the rest of them. So when she's finally ready to take the next step and try herself out there, Tara is obviously the first one to volunteer going with her, which leaves their household adultless for the day. Taking the opportunity, the teenagers have gotten the women's permition to make plans for the day.

The girls are the first ones to arrive. They let themselves inside. They've brought all the junk food and the boys will bring video games while Ron's promised to dug every comic book he owns up. They put the snacks on the counter but they don't open anything. Their stomachs growl loudly, ready to get some food in them.  _The boys better hurry._

"RON, GET YOUR ASS HE-" starts Enid her sentence, shouting from the entrance of the kitchen, but she quickly cuts herself off when they step into the living room.

Ron's sleeping on the couch, his body bending slightly in a way that indicates falling asleep wasn't intentional. There's a thin layer of sweat forming on his forehead that  _could_ mean his sleep has been disturbed by a nightmare at some point, but otherwise he looks peaceful right now - a rare occurrence. 

They both go closer slowly, quietly - Enid picking a fallen pillow up from the floor on her way, then squatting down in front of him.

"He probably doesn't get much sleep at night," whispers Sophia.

"Nightmares have to be pretty bad," agrees Enid. Flashbacks of her parents' death pop into her brain, but she shakes her head to get the images out of it as quickly as possible. "I know mine were."

Enid gently lifts his head to slide the pillow in the space between his neck and the couch so he can rest more comfortably. She notices the absence from her side so she looks behind her to see the taller girl picking up a soft-looking blanket from a chair in the corner. Enid stands up, so Sophia can properly cover their sleeping friend with it.

They leave the room on their tiptoes, letting Ron rest.

The boys arrive 10 minutes later, loud and chatty on their way inside.

Enid rushes to the door to shush them before they reach the kitchen, so Ron can continue sleeping without any interruptions.

The freshly arrived part of the group is very much confused about the situation but once they're ushered into the living room that emotion disappears.

Enid, Duane and Mikey decide to start out with video games while Sophia and Carl individually pick a comic book from the stock placed next to the couch by Ron they assume.

From that moment snacks are opened in the kitchen, video games are on mute from the start, comic book page rustles are almost nonexistent.

For a little while, everyone seems to be satisfied with their activity, but Duane quickly loses interest. He tries reading a comic like the other ones, but eventually, he gets bored of that, too, so he settles on watching the screen. He's always been an outdoors kind of person, Enid thinks.

Mikey and Enid keep playing, but now without Duane in the middle they quickly become competitive enough to accuse the other of cheating.

Sophia - always the peacemaker - upon seeing this, struts over with her calm demeanor, sits down between the two of them and takes a controller. She single-handedly beats both Enid and Mikey under record time leaving both of their jaws on the floor.

"Queen," whispers Duane, bowing to Sophia. She winks. She stands up, and like as nothing ever happened, gets back to her own entertainment.

They turn the TV off after that and decide maybe reading isn't a bad idea.

Sophia looked like she's found her comic interesting enough to not put it down for a while, but Duane seems to still be bored out of his mind, so she decides to abandon reading, and sneakily throws a popcorn against the boy's face to get him out of his grumpy state.

It catches Duane off guard, but definitely does the trick, because soon enough it turns into a competition of who can catch more food with their mouths if the other throws it.

More lands on the carpet and everyone's lap than in anyone's mouth, - they'll have to clean the mess up before Denise and Tara get back - but this feels like  _childhood_  and  _getting something you've lost_   _back_.

In the middle of the food war, Enid - high on all that giddiness - pecks Sophia's cheek before she can stop herself. The act takes both of them by surprise and ends in both of them blushing. Enid bows her head slightly, bashful eyes searching for another pair, but careful not to give any signs of nervousness, though her heart could cooperate more because it feels like it's ready to leap itself across the room, taking its owner with itself.

The longer Enid watches Sophia's face the more freckles start to stand out against the blush on her nose and cheeks, creating an adorable visual. Enid's mouth crookes into a smile.

A popcorn hitting Sophia's face drags the taller girl's attention back to the food war.

Enid takes a deep breath, slowly calming down. Her eyes wander through the room, - both an anchor and a distraction - but the pair at the couch catches her attention for a longer period. Carl - comic book laying on the carpet, forgotten - is sitting on the floor and has an elbow perched on the armrest next to Ron's head. She watches as Carl slowly rases his arm - an unsure movement. He hesitates, but still gently sweeps a damp lock of hair out of Ron's furrowed brow, his eyes focused on the sleeping boy's face.

Enid smiles.  _Yes. Healing starts here._


	4. colour me yellow

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **Note to self**  
>  1\. Sunlight can be violent.  
> 2\. Warmth has its distinct hue.  
> 3\. Learn the difference.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> IT'S HERE! CHAPTER 4 IS HERE HELLO!

_This is bullshit._

Ron can't believe he's doing this. He cannot believe he  _chooses_ to sneak his way to the armory. This is a new level of low.

And this goddamn feeling that's latched itself into his chest doesn't feel like it's planning to go away any time soon. He knows what this  _thing_  is. He just doesn't want it.

He's aware what his parents had wasn't a healthy relationship. He's seen happy couples before. How they move around each other. How they communicate with each other. How they move  _into_  each other. Tara and Denise, Aaron and Eric, Glenn and Maggie, Michonne and... Rick. He knows it's supposed to be a good thing. But every time he thinks about the possibility, memories of his parents' marriage pop into his head and when they leave there's a foul taste coating his tongue as some kind of twisted farewell gift. It's a one of a kind poison.

So he's completely  _and_  successfully avoided Carl for a week now which is not an easy task around here. He's not stupid. Carl's not stupid either. He knows that sooner or later, this will all catch up to him and bite him right in the ass.

He reaches the armory and steps inside. He looks over guns and bullets and knives and weapons of all kind, but his eyes settle on the objects made out of wood. He grabs one, studying it for a minute.

He sighs. He needs to get going before someone-

(He hears the door open.)

... comes in.

"You gotta improve on those ninja skills."

Well, it caught up to Ron way sooner than he thought it would.

"You’ve been avoiding me," states Carl. "Why?"

Ron's defence mechanism kicks in. "You’re hallucinating. Thought about paying Denise a visit? Might help talking to a professional." In any other situation a comeback like this would have been absolute gold, but currently it just sounds like a pathetic attempt to change the subject.

"Cut the bullshit and fucking talk to me." Predictably, Carl's having none of it.

"I’m fine, Carl," - he sighs, finally facing the other boy - " _We’re fine._  There’s nothing to talk about.” Ron knows it's a weak excuse for a lie, but the tiredness in his voice covers some of it up.

"... Suuure." drawls Carl, not convinced at all. His brows furrow slightly as his attention fixates on the wooden object in Ron's hand. "What do you need that stick for?"

"There’s a deer carcass on one of the trees outside the walls. It's been there for a few days now. It probably got stuck midjump while trying to get away from walkers," explains Ron. "I'm gonna get it down."

"Why is it bothering you?" asks Carl.

"My window looks exactly at that tree. I don't know about you but I have no desire to wake up to that view every morning."

Carl nods. "Fair enough. Ready?"

The question catches Ron off guard, green eyes widening slightly. "I can do it."

"I know."

"Seriously, Carl. You don’t have to babysit me anymore. I can handle it."

"This isn’t me wanting to babysit you. I just happen to have nothing better to do."

Ron has a hard time believing that. There's always someone who needs help, there's always something waiting to be fixed around here.

"Your dad doesn't need any help?"

"He's asleep." Oh, right. He forgot Daryl and Rick got back from that hospital run just a few hours ago.

"Where's Enid?"

"Making out with Sophia somewhere. Probably." While Carl isn't sure about this one, Ron knows this 'accusation' is more likely than any other act Carl will mention within the next minute. He's seen the two girls kissing this week. Multiple times. They're very bad at choosing "hiding" places.

"Judith?"

"Glenn and Maggie." Makes sense. Ever since Maggie's started showing they've been volunteering to look after Judith any time they're allowed to and have the time and with Maggie's due date being so close the soon-to-be parents can use all the practice they can get their hands on.

The next person that pops into Ron's head is "Mi-"

"Mikey's practicing with Morgan. But you know that, right?" Ron opens his mouth to protest but decides against it. There's no point denying it. Yeah, he knows. Otherwise he wouldn't be here. "Duane finds it very entertaining. I walked past them on the way here."

Ron's about to say the next name when Carl beats him to it. "You're gonna list everyone? Should I sit down?"

Ron's deadpan expression is answer enough. "Fucking ridiculous," he grumbles as he heads out the door.

Ron doesn't have to look behind him to know Carl's grinning.

 

 

They've been staring at the rotting carcass for a good minute now, their faces scrunched up in mutual disgust.

Carl breaks the silence. "I still don't understand what do you need that stick for."

"Are you serious? I am not touching  _that" -_ he points a finger at the dead animal for punctuation while giving Carl the side-eye _-_  "with my bare hands. It's rotting and reeking and I'm pretty sure the second we touch it it's gonna fall apart to pieces and I don’t know about you but I'm  _not_  planning on showering in intestines today."

Ron's dramatic speech puts a grin on Carl's face, but he's already putting his hat on a nearby branch, using it as a hanger. "Are  _you_ serious _?_ Have you looked around yet?"

They don't pay attention to a source of groaning getting closer and closer to them, too busy spotting the dead  _laying_  on the ground.

When the boys  _do_  notice them, the walkers are still at a reasonable distance away, so they have plenty of time to pull their knives out and for Ron to lean the stick against a tree.

There's maybe half a dozen, give or take. Ron kills one here, Carl kills one there. They're fighting with their backs to each other, a dynamic that's working well until-

Ron steps on a rock and loses his balance. He lands on his back and bad arm. He quickly puts a leg up to stop a walker falling onto him but he has another one coming at him from his left side. Fighting through the pain he manages to push against its chest using a forearm to block teeth sinking into his flesh. He feels his arm getting weaker by the second so he has to be fast.

Ron's about to stab his knife into its brain when Carl does it for him, going in from the other side so Ron has the opportunity to jab his weapon through the other walker's skull.

He pushes the body off of him, groaning in the process.

"Are you okay?" Carl's tone indicates worry. He reaches out, offering a hand for Ron to grab.

Ron rejects it by pushing it away while standing up on his own. "I HAD IT!" he shouts.

Carl takes a step back from him.

Ron hopes it's out of surprise and not fear. He doesn't want to hurt Carl. Quite the opposite. He wants Carl to hurt  _him_.

"I had it," Ron repeats the words. He's not quite sure who he's trying to convince here.

"What?"

"I had it." He sounds like a broken record.  _I had it. I had it._

" _Oh_   _clearly,_ " Carl's voice is dripping with sarcasm. "So let me get this straight. You're mad because I dared to save your life?"

Ron doesn't answer and Carl still understands absolutely nothing.

"What is your  _problem_?" Irritation slowly, but gradually takes confusion's place. It's hard to stay patient in a situation where the person who has a problem with  _something_  doesn't elaborate on the problem itself.

"What the fuck are you even doing here?"  _Just rile him up. That's all you need._

The stoicism in Ron's tone does the trick and triggers a spark of anger. "Do you want me to punch you? Will that snap you out of.. whatever this is? Is that what you want?"

_Yes._

"Because I am very close to punching you."

_Please._

"I don't need you." It comes out cold, Ron now perfectly in control of what he's doing.

Carl runs out of patience. "You know what? Fuck this. Do you want to get killed? Be my guest. I'm done trying. Your mood swings are giving me a whiplash."

Ron can feel guilt tugging at his heart as he watches the boy go. As his eyes briefly wander over the woods, a brown object catches his attention. A heavy sigh leaves his lips.

"Carl, you left your h-" Carl whips around so suddenly he forgets to finish his sentence.

Carl's entire being moves with rage. He's  _clenched fists_  and  _fire behind eyes_  and  _a determination so strong_  you can practically hear the  _boom_ of each step.

 _And there it is_. That vile feeling in the gut he's all too familiar with. A mix of disgust and self-blame and guilt making him feel sick to the stomach. Ron smiles something bittersweet.  _Welcome._

 _Remind me of something I hate._  Ron needs that punch.  _Remind me of my father._

He closes his eyes right before Carl gets to him, bracing himself for the impact. He slightly opens his jaw, knowing full well that could lead to broken bones. The more pain the better. He wants it to stuck.  _Give me my fucking heart back._

.. the punch never comes but there's a hand at the back of his head now and what he feels instead  _leaves him breathless_  all the same and  _bruises in the best way possible_  and is  _way too welcome_ he doesn't want to admit to himself.

By the time his brain catches up to what is happening Carl's already backed up.

"Let me know," - says Carl, voice raspy and mouth a breath away - "when you've sorted your shit out." And with that Carl blindly, but confidently reaches out to fetch his hat from the branch, puts it on his head, takes a few steps backwards, then turns and walks away. He leaves Ron there, dumbfounded, with butterflies in the stomach and heart almost out of chest when-

The forgotten carcass 'decides' to drop down from the tree at that exact moment, breaking him out of his stupor.

"Please someone tell me this wasn't what I think it was... " he mutters, a pained expression on his face.

When he turns around his suspicion is confirmed.

The deer's body is on the ground, eyes looking straight at him, like it's mocking him even in its death. He looks accusingly at the poor animal for a few moments.  _Matchmaking at its finest._ The stench emanating from the carcass is getting worse by the second, making his stomach turn, so he makes the decision to grab the stick and head back to Alexandria.

_And they say romance is dead._

 

 

_"Let me know when you've sorted your shit out."_

It takes him a few days to collect enough courage to face Carl again.

But now that he's actively looking for him, he can't find Carl anywhere and Alexandria isn't that big.

He decides to ask the next person he comes across and prays that won't be Rick.

Must be his lucky day, because the figure coming towards him is certainly not male. Rosita lets him know Carl's on a run with Abraham and Tara.

So he waits. He sits down near the entrance under a tree and hopes they'll be back soon.

He spots Eugene at the gate. The man's expression is blank, looking ahead. Ron can't decide if he's zoned out or just concentrating too hard.

He's a weird one, but Ron likes him.

Eugene's always got something to say, mouth going a mile a minute. Then there's this mullet haircut he's very attached to for some reason. Not to mention the intense staring when he doesn't know what to do with himself. But he's one of the smartest people here. (Ron sure does not understand half the stuff he's talking about. He doubts anyone does.) He's eager to learn, and constantly trying to be better. He desperately wants to not depend on the people around him in dangerous situations. He's terrified and it shows but despite it all he pushes through. Ron respects that about him. People underestimate Eugene. Enemy and family alike. A mistake if you ask Ron.

"They're back!" A female voice brings Ron back to the present.  _Sasha._

Eugene's now fumbling to open the gate as quickly as possible.

Ron gets up and heads towards the main entrance.

He looks up and he sure sees Sasha on guard duty. Now  _she_  intimidates the hell out of him.

He hasn't really gotten to know the woman, but he's been on a run or two with her. He's seen her kill walkers. Now people definitely don't underestimate  _her_  and with good reason. She's an excellent shot (and in Ron's opinion a terrific teacher) and she sure leaves an impression with all that pride and confidence she carries herself with.

The closer Ron gets to his destination the more nervous he becomes.  _What does he want to say to him again.. ? Oh, right._

 _'Let's keep our distance for now. Let's keep our distance for now. Let's keep our distance for now.'_ He repeats it like a mantra.

When he reaches the gate and catches sight of the vehicle, he notices that it's farther away than he's thought and.. it's still. His curiosity gets the better of him and makes him investigate further, out of Alexandria.

Abraham exits the truck. "Luckiest bastards in the world, let me tell ya. That's what we are."

"Kid." Abraham greets Ron with his signature smirk and a pat on the back as he passes by. The dude is a beast but he sure knows how to lighten the mood up. Even if it's sometimes inappropria-

"Honey, I'm home!"

... it's inappropriate most of the time.

Ron grins. He knows without looking behind him who has the 'privilege' to get such a greeting from the ginger man. He does it anyway. Eugene doesn't look impressed.

"Hey Ron," the grin softens into a smile as he hears Tara's gentle voice. She puts a fist out for a fist bump, expecting Ron to do the same. She doesn't have to wait for long.

She's already made a couple of steps from him when he remembers to actually ask his question. "Tara, what's wrong?"

Tara turns around, now slowly continuing her way backwards to her destination. "Don't worry, it's nothing serious. We ran out of gas. There was a bridge we were supposed to cross but we found it so unstable we decided to find another way to get to the other side. Like Abraham said 'we're lucky bastards'. He'll be back in a minute. Carl's" - she cranes her neck a little, trying to spot the sheriff hat and the person it belongs to - "around somewhere." And with that Tara turns again, now slightly jogging into Alexandria.

Ron freezes at the mention of the name, feeling nervousness creeping its way back into his system. His anxiety is getting worse by the second, so before he could make up his mind he continues his way to the truck.

Carl's now leaning against the vehicle's front, guarding it 'til Abraham gets back with gas so they can fill the tank. The hat is missing from his head, but Ron can see the object peeking out from behind Carl.

Ron's just standing there, trying to verbally repeat the sentence which now keeps replaying in his head, but the words seem to be stuck in the back of his throat.

Carl doesn't make it easier for Ron, neither. He doesn't move and doesn't speak, just got his eyes locked on Ron. He's got this defiant attitude in his body language as if saying  _'I dare you to say it. I dare you to come closer. I dare you.'_

Ron has to look away for a moment from the other boy's gaze.  _What do you want me to say? What do you want me to do?_

_'I dare you.'_

Ron makes his choice.

"Fuck it." He closes the distance between them "Come here." and kisses him.

Ron breathes out through his nose, tension leaving his body.  _I'm ~~not~~ my father. I'm not my father. I'm **not** my father._

The kiss is somewhat clumsy and goes sometimes out of rhythm and they don't quite know what to do with their hands yet but it feels  _good_  and  _right_  and Carl _tastes nothing like poison._

"Fucking finally," Carl mutters against his mouth, his teeth slightly catching on Ron's lower lip. There's a guttural sound building in the back of his throat, threatening to escape in any second and he's got a fistful of Ron's shirt to pull him  _closerclosercloser_  to his body when-

"Sorry to interrupt, boys!"

The pair separates, freezing on the spot. They look at the source of the voice and sure enough, there's Abraham a few steps away from them unashamedly grinning with a gas can in his hand.

"You may continue the activity right away," - Abraham winks at them, continously unfazed by their kiss while they still look like deers caught in headlights, absolutely mortified - "but before that happens we have to feed and take this baby inside."

_Oh God. Where's a walker when you need one._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Feedback, as always, is very much appreciated. :)


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